Queen Me
by rogerthat
Summary: When the secret double life of Charles Kingsley comes back full circle, Alice, now 22, must revisit Wonderland to find answers. But oddly enough, none of her companions seem to remember who she is. Post film. Eventual Alice x Hatter. Dark.
1. Prologue

Queen Me

**Prologue**

*****

_ "Blemishes are hidden by night and every fault forgiven, for darkness makes any woman fair."_

*

The auspicious Charles Kingsley was a keenly intuitive and imaginative man; similar to a magician, he could seemingly pull unique ideas out of his hat at whim. Because of this, one could easily count on Charles to approach and solve problems from an atypical perspective. Although his fellow entrepreneurs and coworkers held him in the highest esteem, they agreed amongst themselves that many of his contrivances were both outlandish and absurd. Little did they know that it was _because_ of Charles's deeply-rooted beliefs in change and innovation that he and his company had become so successful.

Many of his acquaintances saw him as a shy, introverted sort of man; he was often found quietly brooding in his office, glazed eyes staring out the window as his mind drifted to faraway places. But, although his mind was always meandering elsewhere, his guard remained unwaveringly astute, so he was never taken by surprise when a coworker came messily stumbling into his office.

Indeed, he was a very peculiar specimen of a man; a man who kept to himself, but never hesitated to share his thoughts or ideas.

Nevertheless, as a father, Charles's many accomplishments could not be estimated in any currency. His wife and daughters took place as the unwavering epicenter of his busy life, and the compassion he showed them knew limitless boundaries. He showered them with every ounce of affection he could muster, and he never went a day without expressing how much they meant to him. He worked tirelessly to make a living for his family, so that they would have the best of things. Maintaining a thriving company afforded them a comfortable, upper middle class life, free of labor and financial worry; he was very grateful to be so fortunate in life and always counted his blessings.

Charles had many acquaintances, as any businessman does, but of them all, he considered only two as confidantes: Lord Ascot and Helen, his wife. However, their knowledge of Charles's hazy past was virtually nil. Out of courtesy and, because he'd pleaded them not to, they never attempted to pry, no matter how strong the urge was to do so. Helen and Lord Ascot presumed that the past haunted him. They both yearned to hear the stories of his past, but they never received the opportunity. His untold past shadowed his footsteps until the day of his mysterious and untimely death.

Yes. In life, Charles Kingsley was many things: a pioneer of business, an avant-garde intellect, a dreamer, and a loving father and husband – but above all, he was a man of many secrets.

*

_"__In the dream, I'm falling… falling down a dark hole." _

"Goodnight, Love."

Charles gently pressed his lips against his eight-year-old daughter's forehead, combing some of the rogue strands of blonde hair from her face. His face remained a perfectly cultivated mask of stoicism but, deep in the hollow of his chest, his heart was fluttering wildly, like the wings of a caged bird. Each rhythmic beat seemed to resound loudly in his ears as he protectively hovered above his daughter's now-relaxed form. It wouldn't be long before her eyelashes drifted close.

He lingered for a couple precarious moments, counting the traits Alice had received from him, versus her mother. Alice was a perfect amalgamation of the two of them; she'd been born with his cocoa-colored eyes and willowy limbs, yet she'd retained her mother's fair complexion and delicate facial structure. Her hair was a couple shades darker than Helen's own flaxen locks; but he'd supposed that, if her hair was as light as his wife's, Alice would be so cadaverously pale that she'd look like she was either anemic or standing at death's door.

It was during these quiet moments of examination that, without further adieu, Alice's face finally took on a look of repose as sleep ensconced her once more.

"_There's… a dodo bird, a rabbit in a waist coat, a talking caterpillar, and a smiling cat." _

Margret, Alice's precocious, materialistic older sister, had never talked of such unsettling things, for she was far too preoccupied with dolls and dresses and attending social gatherings with Helen. Not that he had ever expected her to speak of such things; no. After all, Margret was only Helen's daughter by blood and his by means of adoption papers – so there was no need for him to fret over her. They shared no blood attachment – but that did not mean that he loved her any less.

When they met, Helen was going through the painful throes of lost love. Her previous husband fell ill and passed away; she was left alone to support herself and her two-year-old daughter, Margret. The situation was a lamentable one, but Charles could see past it. The two of them fell in love, married, and he happily signed the adoption papers, taking Margret under his wing as one of his own. Two years following this, Helen gave birth to Alice.

Alice had been bequeathed with his genes; her chocolate-colored eyes and sinewy, too-thin body brazenly displayed this. Not only did she mirror him in appearance, but in mind is well. She was an obstinate, headstrong girl that strongly disliked being forced to adhere to proper etiquette; she also thought of bizarre, unconventional things that only he himself would think of. For the longest time, their similarities worried him immensely. After eight quiet years, he had begun to think he was just being overly cautious; that his needless worrying was just him wasting valuable time. He had been prepared to put the matter of his past under the table for good.

But then… then Alice mentioned her dream.

'_Surely it's just a coincidence,' _his conscience annotated in an oddly rational fashion. At this, his gut seemed to scream in protest, as if saying, _'That's a __**lie**__, and you bloody well know it!'_

Charles wrung his wrists as he quietly stood up, doing his best not to jostle his sleeping daughter. His pulse was positively _racing_.

'_I must finish this meeting,'_ he thought to himself as he discreetly made his way out of his daughter's bedroom, closing the creaking door as delicately as possible. The walk down the hall was a blur; he'd been too absorbed in thought to take notice of his trekking. Soon enough he found himself back in his office, amongst anxious-looking coworkers and, hopefully, future business partners.

"Charles, you look as though you've seen a ghost!" Lord Ascot, the future business partner in question, exclaimed worriedly, taking his charlatan pipe from his mouth. "Are you quite alright?"

Charles wearily rubbed at his neck, attempting to crack a smile. It appeared pained. A ghost, did Ascot say? Not in a literal sense, per se; ghosts, to him, tended to serve more of a metaphorical purpose.

"I'm fine… thank you. Now that that's settled, shall we get back to our previous discussion?"

The other suited men, some in their seats and some standing with their canes diligently at their sides, began to fidget with discontent. A couple of them nervously rubbed their palms against their slacks and others folded their hands and refolded them, locking and re-locking their fingers together fiendishly.

"_Do you think… I've gone around the bend?"_

The dark haired man shook his head to expel the thought. He had more pressing matters to deal with. Charles squinted up at Lord Ascot, who was worrying his mustache between his thumb and forefinger; it was a nervous tick of sorts. He and Charles had been friends for years; when they had first forged their alliance, they both yearned to nurture their businesses and help them grow. Between them lay years of shared sacrifice, successes, and more importantly, failures. Those years of allotted time had taught Charles to adequately decipher his friend's state of mind. The mustache-petting was usually a sign of indecision or contemplation.

"Charles," Ascot finally cleared his throat, "I can understand how engaging in a trading agreement with the East could significantly boost our revenue, but don't you think that trading with a country you know so little of is a dangerous gamble?" The insipid group of men began to mumble and nod their heads in agreement.

The sides of the younger businessman's mouth twitched into a true smile.

"Of _course_ it is a dangerous gamble; that is what we do day by day. That is the business we are in, is it not? We invest our money and time in hopes that we will reap some sort of benefit; sometimes, we must do it at great risk. But do not assume, my dear friend, that I have not done my own fair share of homework on this affair! I'm not so naive as to whimsically frolic into unknown territory without having my bearings about me," he elaborated, pacing the room and making eye contact each big-nosed gentleman as he walked. His enthusiastic tone seemed to have caught their attention.

"Need I remind you all of how incredibly dense the population is? Yes – it would be an expensive, laborious and quite possibly dangerous trip, but the shores of those countries offer hundreds of thousands of potential customers. Admittedly, our first attempt may very well not be _stellar_, but it would be a magnificent learning experience for the future, wouldn't you agree?" Charles's gaze landed on Lord Ascot once more; his eyes were sharp, tawny, and glittering with determination. "Ascot… as with everything that we do, there is a certain amount of gambling to be had. But can you think – no, can you _imagine_ - if we won the jackpot?"

*several months later*

Trembling hands scoured the desktop with urgent force. A coffee mug skirted over the edge of the mahogany surface, only to shatter on the floor; the cold coffee residing within pooled onto the wood-paneling, seeping between the cracks. Next came the lamp – it was swept over the edge, just like the poor mug preceding it - and it, too, was followed by an even louder crash.

He was rifling through papers, throwing them all over the floor in a craze. The air in his lungs was like fire; it hurt to breath. Bleeding, paper-cut fingers grasped at the desk drawers, yanking them open with rapacious force. Charles dumped them upside down individually, emptying their contents on the floor, and began crazily sorting through them. Bathed in the heady orange light of the nearby fire, he looked like a wild man who had swung around the bend not once, but numerous times.

Perhaps he had.

'_Where is it, where is it, __**where is it**__?!'_ Frenzied, the man grabbed and tore through more papers.

"_Papa… I could have sworn it was real! You should have seen the Queen. She was positively awful! She wanted to cut off everyone's head!"_

Next came the bookshelves – Charles tore at the books with even more fervor than previously, grabbing them by their spines, not even bothering to scour the covers before catapulting them to the other side of the room. He didn't know how many books he had thrown, but he'd thrown enough to make his arms ache before finding the object he so desired.

In the very back of where the books had been collecting dust, right in the nook between the wall and the shelf, was a small vellum scroll, neatly bound with a piece of scarlet chiffon ribbon. Who ever had been tasked to hide it, he loathed to admit, had done so expertly. He snatched it swiftly and made his way back to his thoroughly-ransacked desk (though it scarcely looked like it could be classified as a desk now.) Breathing still labored, he thanked himself for having not ravenously hurled his inkwell and quill at the furthermost wall. With quaking hands, he rearranged his desk fastidiously, moving his inkwell to the upper right corner of the desk.

What else – what else…

The mirror! Of course! He would have to find a protective covering of some sort for it. Perhaps some bed linens would serve as a good alternative?

He nodded in acquiescence to the thought; spinning on his heel, the chestnut-haired businessman marched towards the faux antique armoire where, inside of its masterfully-carved cherry wood doors, hung a body-length mirror with a flower-emblazoned silver frame. It was a large thing so, with no small amount of effort, he struggled to pry the mirror from it's perch inside of the wardrobe and hoisted the heavy object down to the ground, letting it lean against the wall. Following this, he speedily went to the washroom and opened every cupboard in search of bed sheets. Because the maids were the only ones who knew what went where in this room, it would only be appropriate that the cupboard storing the sheets would be the very last one to be opened.

He pulled out the folded linen resting at the very top, haphazardly snapping the cupboard door shut but leaving the rest of them gaping open. He then hustled back to his chaos-ridden study, closing the double doors behind him.

The archaic mirror, with its warped, rust-stained glass, was far from an ordinary heirloom. It was a gateway of sorts; a looking glass into another world. But unlike many gateways, the door swung both ways. Things could come in… and things could get _out_.

Carefully, he draped the milky white sheets over the mirror, smoothing out wrinkles and knotting the edges together in the back. He draped another sheet over it, this time fastening the knots together tightly in the front so that the mirror was completely obscured.

Covertly, he glanced back at his writing desk, where the scroll was perched. In the firelight, it seemed to maintain an otherworldly glow. Charles moved to his chair, which had been knocked over during his impassioned searching, and pulled it upright before sitting himself down upon it. He snatched some parchment from off of the floor, sat the papers before him, and organized them into two piles. A look of defeat settled upon his worry-wrought face.

'_It must be done.' _

Dipping his quill in the nearby inkwell, Charles began his first document, gingerly bringing the tip of his pen to the paper and writing each letter in elegant cursive. It was titled:

_To My family:_

_My Last Will and Testament_

The second document, however, was vastly more important. It was addressed to Alice, and to Alice alone.

*

Lord Ascot was sleeping when someone began to wrap loudly at his door. The knocking invaded his dreams, causing him to stir and sit up in his bed. A look of annoyance crested upon his features as he blindly reached for his bedside lamp, wincing as the light came to life, irritating his sleepy eyes. Slinging his legs over the side of his bed, he slid his feet into his slippers and padded out of his bedroom, looking petulant. His servants had gone home for night, so he would have to send the thrice-damned door-knocker away himself.

'_Such is my luck,'_ he thought sourly.

Down the stairs and to the front door he went, unlocking and swinging it open with exaggerated haste. His mouth was open and fully prepared to give whoever-it-was a good verbal lashing. No words came out when, lo and behold, the interrupter of his sleep was revealed to be none other than Charles Kingsley, who looked disheveled and distraught. He hadn't seen his friend in months, not since he'd declined his business offer.

"Good Lord, Charles, do you have any idea of what time it is?" Ascot rubbed at his eyes, blinking first at his friend and then at the enormous, oval-shaped object he was holding. "What in Heaven's name-"

"I'm dreadfully sorry, Ascot, but please try to restrain yourself from asking questions that I myself do not know the answer to. I am aware of the time but, forgive me if I sound impertinent, I do not have much of it to spare," Charles interrupted hastily. The older man's eyebrows rose skeptically as the other reached his hand into his overcoat, pulling out an envelope. Its lip was secured with a wax seal that was embellished with an ornate 'K'.

"Charles-"

The man held up his envelope-bearing hand, silencing him.

"Ascot, I know that we haven't spoken for quite some time, but you have been my most trusted friend for many years," he said gravely, "and there are things occurring that are beyond my control. It is for this reason that I am entrusting this envelope and object to you, in hopes that you will keep them safe. I have a safety deposit box at the bank in my name – this envelope must be taken there for I am afraid that I cannot do it myself. I do not have the time. Similarly, I have reserved an in-room safe in the same bank. This," he gestured to the drape-covered object, "must be taken there immediately. I implore that you do not open it."

"Whatever for? Are you in some kind of trouble? If so, you know that I can help-"

"There's nothing you can do to help me, old friend, except to take these items I am giving you and keep them safe," the younger man refuted urgently. "They are for Alice. She must receive them on her twenty-second birthday – no later and no sooner. It is detrimental that you do not speak to her or anyone else about this."

"Not even Mrs. Kingsley?"

"No! Only Alice," Charles interjected. "You must take them to the bank tomorrow, immediately."

Ascot hesitatingly took the envelope that the other man was ushering towards him; Charles's hand darted back to his pocket, groping for an even smaller, thicker envelope.

"In this envelope, you will find the keys for the safety deposit box and the in-room safe, as well as any additional documents you may need to access them," those brown, pleading eyes looked up at him with desperation.

It was this soulful gaze that made Ascot realize that his friend was not off of his rocker. What Charles was saying was of vital importance, and he was putting every once of his faith, whatever amount he had left of it, in him. To say 'no' would be an unforgivable travesty.

Having conceded to his friend's will, Ascot took the second envelope with icy fingers and gave a nod of affirmation. Charles seemed to slump with relief.

"You have my eternal gratitude, Ascot."

The pajama-clad man gave a weak smile. For a moment, they stood in mutual silence as the mustached man fished for something to say.

"Before I do this, you must tell me, Charles… will I be seeing you again?"

*

It was just past midnight and the sky was a heavy pall of darkness; the stars were scarce, shrouded by low-lying clouds. Oak Street was glistening with moisture from the cloak of silvery fog; the air was crisp and wet. Weather in London scarcely varied, it seemed. The gloominess was tangible, and it was only exacerbated by the eeriness of the silence and the sallow light emitted by the lamp posts lining the sidewalk. To lone figures stood in the darkness, unable to say a word.

That night, standing at his dearest friend's doorstep, Charles Kingsley offered Ascot no answer, because the grief reflected in his eyes said it all.

*

**Author's Note**

So. Let me tell you this now: this is going to be dark. How dark? Well, although I know where I want this story to go, I can't exactly give you a definition of that. I just wanted to give you all a heads up, so make sure you fasten your seat belts during later chapters.

Thank you for reading - please review! I'd love to hear your thoughts.


	2. Mirror Conversations

Queen Me

**Chapter I **

Mirror Conversations

*

_"You have my eternal gratitude, Ascot."_

_The pajama-clad man gave a wane smile. For a moment, they stood in mutual silence as the mustached man fished for something to say._

_"Before I do this, you must tell me, Charles… will I be seeing you again?"_

*

There was extravagant lace, milky white, crepe de chine silk, and, like an array of burning scarlet stars, there was blood.

The scene was both tragically beautiful and horrifically stunning. The red on white offered an ugly-gorgeous sort contrast, like red paint blemishing the pert and silky petals of a white rose.

White was, to her, flawless. But now… the color was stained. It could be pristine when standing on its own, perhaps, but amongst the current periphery, white epitomized death. Instead of purity, it now stood for the ghastly, pigment-less flesh of a corpse.

Her father's tattered body was lifelessly slumped just outside of the radius that it took for the door to open. His body was completely in tact, all except for his throat, where there was a single gruesome laceration. There, she could see tendons and small stumps of bleached cartilage peaking out, and behind that, the tubular shape of his larynx. The blood had begun to coagulate; in the firelight, which had now dwindled to simmering little coals and small tendrils of flame, the glistening scarlet fluid appeared sticky and inescapable. His favorite, most valuable silk shirt – the one with the glorious ruffles at the neck that she always liked to curiously poke at – was splattered with gore.

The blood soaked not only his shirt and the floor – it soaked the air. In the atmosphere, the scent of tangy metal loomed like an ominous thunderhead. It was an anomalous blend of sweet, bitter, and sour. The smell of death clung desperately to everything in its grasp; like a baby at its mother's breast, it would not relinquish its hold. For a fleeting moment, Alice feared that the smell would make her throw up.

Shadowed beneath the threshold of her father's study, she stood with arthritic stiffness, too mortified to move. Her spine had become as rigid as a steel beam and, fuzzily, she registered a slight ticking in her chest. The meek sound was seemingly reminding her that time had not come to an abrupt halt. Perhaps the ticking was her heart, but how could that be possible? When things were broken beyond repair, they were not supposed to continue to function. If one was to take a clock from off the wall and throw it to the ground, it would not continue to tick away. It would _stop_.

Amidst the ticking, there was screaming. It was a horrendous, soul-shattering sound that showed no signs of ebbing. It continued to crescendo, louder and higher, like a siren. But at the same time, it sounded muffled, like there were mittens covering her ears.

It was not until her mother forced her away from the door that Alice realized that it was she who was screaming.

*

The days ensuing Charles Kingsley's death were cold and morose. It was only on rare occasions that the sun was able to pierce through the seemingly impenetrable shroud of London's murky sky; but even then, the sunshine didn't last long. From the street, the Kingsley household appeared vacant; none of its residents came or left. There were times, however, when a bearded man wearing a suit would stop in and visit for an hour or two, and occasionally police investigators would come by to inspect the house. Other than that, the front door remained tightly shut, locked, and uninviting.

The uninformed masses, when left to their own devices, had begun to extrapolate and circulate rumors. These rumors fluttered about the streets like menacing little butterflies. Neighboring children talked of monsters, while their parent's whispered, 'murder.'

Grief-stricken, Miss Kingsley closed the blinds of each window in the house, except for one. This window, the rightmost pane on the third floor of the house, was occupied for hours at a time by a pale face framed by unruly curls of sandy blonde hair. Almost every waking hour, Alice, having recently turned nine years old, sat on the cushioned ledge of the bay window in her bedroom and pressed her face against the coolness of the glass. Rivulets of rain often sped by her eyelashes, so incredibly close, yet worlds away.

The inconsolable blonde had locked herself in her room and, no matter how valiantly Helen attempted coerced her open the door, Alice refused to come out. Charles's death left the youngest Kingsley feeling bereft; the two of them had shared one of the strongest bonds that could be forged between a father and a daughter. But despite her turmoil, the nine-year-old refused to cry. There were moments, of course, when the tears threateningly prickled at her eyelashes, but they never fell. Her father would not have wanted her to cry.

Charles had been more than just a father to Alice. He was her friend; he listened to her when everyone else tuned her out. Together, they made fun of the conceited businessmen that he worked with and, when Alice's mother tried to force her into wearing the stockings which she so loathed, Charles would gently remind Helen that Alice was young and that there was no need for her to do so. And even if she did wear them, the dresses that she wore were always too large, so no one would be able to see them anyway.

What Alice loved most about her father was that he didn't scoff at her dreams or ideas; as a matter of fact, he was always fascinated and eager to hear what she had to say.

*

Scotland Yard thoroughly investigated what they first assumed was a murder, due to the chaotic state of Charles's study. They presumed that a struggle took place, but they found no foreign fingerprints. Everyone in the household was questioned, including Alice and Margret.

The detective who spoke to the two girls was a burlesque man with a large belly and a bushy, curled mustache; he spoke with deliberate delicacy, doing his best to make sure he did not frighten the poor girls. Nevertheless, Margret bawled and babbled like a brook, leaving Alice to answer the majority of the questions. He asked things like:

"Did your mother and father get along?"

"Did your father ever appear sad?"

"Did you ever notice him acting strangely?"

She answered to the best of her ability, doing her utmost to repudiate what the questions insinuated.

When the investigators found the knife that was used, the only discernible fingerprints they found belonged to Mr. Kingsley. With this evidence, the conclusion they reached was one that Alice herself would never acknowledge or agree with.

*

London's perpetually gray sky, as thick and as dingy as the ash inside of an urn, did not ebb on the day of Charles's funeral. The clouds spitefully spat rain down upon the city the entire day; the steady rainfall gradually worsened into a downpour. As the rain fell, the funeral procession, sporting their black umbrellas and equally somber outfits, stood and watched with mournful expressions as Charles's casket was lowered into the ground. For once, the youngest Kingsley abided her mother's wishes and wore her stockings; she even allowed her mother to put a layer of powder and blush on her face. The sudden docility that her youngest daughter displayed caused Miss Kingsley to burst into tears.

That gloomy day, Alice forgot what it was like to paint roses red; she forgot about cats with lucrative smiles; she forgot about educated dodo birds, hookah-smoking caterpillars, teacup-throwing hares, murderous queens and mad hatters. The day that her father's lifeless body was buried beneath the moist cemetery dirt, her precious memories of Wonderland were buried with it.

*

The setting sun, hanging like a large egg yolk in the sky, teetered at the edge of the horizon. The gentle, salty breeze was balmy and summery. It was surprising how amiable the weather was during their voyage. There were no vicious storms and the waves were never tumultuous or violent –there was only the occasional mild rain.

Silently making her way up to the main deck, Alice glanced around, eyes settling on her mentor.

Lord Ascot hadn't changed at all over the years. Although the wrinkles upon his face became more pronounced in the forehead and at the sides of his mouth, areas that made him appear solicitous, his facial hair remained unchanging, and his crisp, ocean blue eyes still held a youthful twinkle. The clothes he donned did not deviate from the outfits which he wore during Alice's youth. Dressed in a highland frock coat, the typical brown Arlington vest, and pinstriped overalls, he still appeared professional and businesslike. Because his hair was beginning to thin out, he took to wearing a felt bowler hat and, because his eyesight was beginning to blur, he invested in a pair of circular, thick-rimmed spectacles; beyond these minor alterations, he seemed to be coming into his old age quite gracefully.

Alice, now a grown woman, crept upon the man standing at the front of the ship. In his hand, she noticed a small, brass telescope.

"Hello, Miss Kingsley," the aged man greeted chivalrously, without turning to her.

Baffled, the woman crossed her arms over her chest.

"How do you do that?" She catechized, stepping beside him and leaning against the ship's rail. Looking down, she watched as the hull smoothly carved through the ocean waves.

"Do what, may I ask?"

"Know that I'm coming without looking? I was trying to sneak up on you," she answered plainly. Her father had the same uncanny ability – to know when someone was approaching without actually seeing or hearing them. It was positively confounding!

Ascot chuckled.

"It's a secret," he teased in a low tenor, passing the telescope over to the blonde.

Scoffing, Alice took the telescope from his hand and raised it to her eye, squinting into the lens. In the distance, she could make out the silhouette of London and its many buildings. The city looked so foreign to her, only after three short years of being away – and yet, despite its foreignness, a chilling sense of foreboding swept over her.

She'd reasoned that, if she voyaged as far away from London as possible, her memories would not follow. Some of them stayed in London, as she had hoped that they would, but others, unfortunately, did not.

Images of Wonderland came to mind with vivid clarity. She didn't bother to keep them at bay anymore – it was futile, really. Even the smallest of things triggered the memories, it seemed; seeing mushrooms in the jungle, watching cats skulking about in allies, fancy top hats, cards, chess, red hair… virtually _everything_. Alice glanced down at the three pink scars on her arm. In a way, she felt that it was Wonderland's calling card, acting as a constant reminder of the world that seemed so unreachable.

She supposed that, although their sojourn in China and Burma did not completely mend the wounds of her past, the time spent in those places opened many new doors of opportunity. Being one of the only females in a male-dominated field brought her immense pride; she received respect and recognition for her hard work from places she would have never expected.

The three-year adventure taught her to repeat to herself, "It's enough. Being successful is enough." And, after years of mentally repeating this mantra, she began to believe it; being successful really _was_ enough. She found that, because of this, she could smile easier. After all, she was doing what her father always dreamed of; surely that in itself would secure her with some inclination of happiness.

Exploring the East induced a thirst for knowledge that was unquenchable. Immersing herself in the exotic culture of these foreign places brought her a new understanding of language, and her ability to speak Chinese had improved at a drastic rate.

Their travels also offered her an opportunity to rediscover the meaning of the term 'beauty'. Alice's mother persuaded her at a young age that beauty was a delicately refined art that needed honing. She also ingrained it into her young, ductile mind that beauty wasn't something that came naturally; it was the product of makeup, corsets, fine jewelry and expensive dresses – a fact that Alice had a hard time accepting, even as a child. But unlike her mother's claims, in the East, beauty was everywhere; it was in the setting sun, the silent temples, the children playing in the streets, the language – it existed in everything, and the people of the culture knew it.

While exploring the dirt-covered, poverty-stricken backstreets of Mandalay, Alice did not wear luxurious dresses or jewelry - her mother would have a coronary if she saw the clothes she wore on a regular basis. She wore short-sleeved blouses covered by tastefully plain vests and long skirts that reached her ankles. More often than not, she didn't bother to pin back her hair, unless she was engaging in a business meeting of some sort. Wearing simple outfits like this, she looked down at the skirt she was wearing, allowed her to fit in easier amongst her male peers. She did not want them to think of her as some high-maintenance flower that was always in need of preening.

When Ascot informed her that they were going back to London, her spirits were immensely dampened. The time trickled by so quickly, she couldn't help but wonder where it went. Apparently being bogged down with paperwork, signing business documents, and smooth-talking with Asian tradesmen kept Alice from noticing that time was continuing to trudge on. Ascot convinced her that, soon enough, they would resume their wayfaring, but apparently he had some very important matters that needed to be tended to. When she agitatedly asked what could possibly be so urgent they needed to up and leave so swiftly, Lord Ascot did not elaborate. He did, however, accuse her of suffering from a nasty case of wanderlust – which she indignantly denied – and he also said that visiting home would offer her a much needed reprieve from work.

Alice pulled herself away from the telescope and handed it back to Ascot.

"We certainly are getting close," she elucidated blandly.

The man smiled broadly.

"Indeed we are. I was informed that Miss Kingsley and your sister are eagerly awaiting your return?"

"Yes, you were informed correctly. Mother intends to throw a welcoming party of sorts. They want to celebrate my birthday as well, although I have not the vaguest idea why," She pushed a strand of hair from her face and tucked it behind her ear and frowned, "They are aware of the fact that I don't want a huge gathering of people, but you know my mother. She has a difficult time restraining herself. Although I do appreciate the gesture…"

"You feel that too many people at once would be overwhelming," Lord Ascot finished for her.

"Precisely," She nodded. He always had a way of understanding just what was going in her head.

"Well," Ascot turned to her, "I wouldn't hold your breath, then, for I am sure it will be a very grandiose occasion."

*

It was nightfall before the ship slowly pulled into the harbor. The darkened sky boasted a glaringly bright moon and silvery stars. On shore, the wind died down significantly and the humidity rose. The heat of London was not comparable to China's in any way; in the East, the swamp-like warmth was overwhelming. It seeped into one's lungs and made it difficult to breathe – the heat, when combined with the tropical humidity, made it almost insufferable. Almost.

Luckily enough, some of the ship hands offered to help Alice move her luggage from the ship and into her carriage. She thanked them gratuitously, assisting them in their efforts. When everything was done being stored in the carriage, she turned to them.

"Thank you so much," she beamed. Alice spent three years with these hard-working men that she now called 'friends.' To pass the time during their days at sea, they taught her to play card games (Cuckoo proved to be one of her favorites,) and sometimes they would play rounds of chess. At first, she was an amateur at best, but constant practice made her quite good. She also supposed that their company eased the slight ache of loneliness that took hold of her from time to time.

One of the bigger men took off his straw hat, holding it to his chest.

"We look forward to seeing you again, Miss Kingsley. It's been a real pleasure!"

"Same to you. I will be seeing you boys around!" She waved 'goodbye' to them as they ambled down the path back to the ship, whose cargo still needed to be off-loaded. They passed by a tired-looking Lord Ascot, who just finished grabbing the remainder of his own things.

"Are you ready to go, Miss Kingsley?"

She folded her hands behind her back.

"Yes, I suppose I am."

"Then... I shall see you tomorrow."

"Oh, you're coming to the party?" Alice asked, surprised.

"Of course. I couldn't miss your twenty-second birthday; it would be a crying shame."

Alice grinned. Good! She wouldn't have to fend for herself then.

"The driver will help you unload your things when you get back; I already paid the fare, so you should be all set to go. I will see you tomorrow, Alice."

She nodded, "See you tomorrow, Sir."

*

It was painfully early in the morning when she saw the carriage off, and Alice now stood in front of the tremendous mansion that was her old home. After her father's death so long ago, Helen explained to the girls that living in the same place would be too hard on them all. So, some months after his passing, they packed their bags and left the city for the countryside. It wasn't the same; the house was far too big for only three people. Not only that, but it was too quiet. When she was ten years old, she could remember cowering beneath the blankets at night, too afraid to fall asleep because of the lack of noise.

Dragging her luggage behind her, Alice pulled open the front door to the house and dropped some of her hand bags onto the tiled floor. The sound of leather against plaster echoed off of the high ceilings.

Using the back of her hand to wipe the sweat lining her brow, Alice peered through the quasi-darkness. The moonlight bled through the tree branches outside and into the window panes; the gnarled shadows were tattooed to the floor. As the branches danced back and forth in the breeze, the floor appeared as though it was coming to life. Consumed in the silence and darkness, Alice felt a familiar breed of fear snaking its way into her nerves.

This was her home, right?

Home…

It was such a strange word. Usually, when one associated themselves with their home, they felt a sense of happiness, comfort and belonging. Alice, however, was gripped by panic. She didn't feel at home _anywhere_. She didn't feel at home in Burma or in China – although she did love both places dearly – nor did she feel at home in London, the place of her birth.

'_How strange it is,'_ she thought to herself, swallowing her trepidation as she walked further into the maw of the house, _'to feel like a visitor in your own home.'_

*

Alice stood in front of her bedroom mirror, examining her lithe figure with intrigue. As she passed through the threshold of adulthood, she'd become slightly curvier, but she remained unwaveringly thin. Her bust was more prominent now than it was when she was 19, which made her unbelievably happy. For the longest time, she feared that she would never outgrow her flat chest.

Now that she thought about it, this was the first time in a long while that she was able to stand in front of a mirror and actually examine herself. It made her feel like a woman again.

There was a knock at the threshold; before she could answer, the door began to creek open. Her mother slid in, shut the door behind her, and then appraised her daughter. The expression of her face was not an impressed one.

"You can't wear that, Alice," Helen admonished. "It's too plain, and it shows the scars on your forearm."

The younger Kingsley's lips thinned. What say did her mother have in what clothes she could or couldn't wear? She was not a little girl anymore.

"At least I'm wearing stockings," Alice stated slyly, passing her mother a furtive glance from the corner of her eye.

"Don't get cheeky with me," Helen's lips pursed, "the guests will be arriving soon. I want you to look like a lady."

"You could've saved yourself a great deal of grief by inviting less people, Mother," she reminded sharply. Her mother swept over to her in a second. Their reflections made eye contact. Fleetingly, Alice supposed that mirror conversations had the potential to be far more interesting than face-to-face ones.

"_You_ can save me a great deal of grief by putting on a different dress, Alice Pleasance Kingsley."

Alice huffed at the use of her middle name.

"This is my best dress. I brought nothing better with me," she admitted begrudgingly.

Helen gasped, scandalized.

"Are you meaning to tell me that you wore these... these _rags_," she pulled at the fabric of her brown day dress, nose scrunching up, "in front of your _coworkers_?"

"I wasn't _meaning_ to tell you that… but if you insist on knowing, then you'll be glad to know that, yes, I _did_ wear them in front of my coworkers."

Helen rubbed at her temples, overcome with irritation.

"Margret has some clothes here still; I'll see what I can find for you. Preferably something light blue –I do believe that the color suites you. Dark colors make you look ill," she muttered to herself as she hustled out of the room.

*

And that was how Alice found herself stumbling into the foyer, dressed in one of Margret's incredibly expensive, light-blue walking dresses. By some unforeseen miracle, it fit in all the right places. She was excited, until her mother informed her that the dress was worn when Margret was 19.

"It would seem that you could still afford some filling out," Her mother noted, adjusting the folds in the back of her dress. "Have you been eating well? You're still so thin... and you look more pale than usual. I should think that being in Asia for so long would give you some color!"

"Mother," Alice sighed. She wondered when both of them would finally realize that she would forever remain thin and unusually white.

Helen pulled away, looking quite pleased with her handiwork. One moment later, she was shamelessly attempting to pull a gaudy necklace over her nape. That was when Alice began to shrilly voice her protest. Helen gawked at her momentarily, and lent her a plain string of pearls instead.

It was a small victory, Alice supposed; but as far as the war on fashion was concerned, her mother was winning.

*

The Victorian home that Miss Kingsley lived in supported enough room for quite a massive crowd – a fact that Alice despised now more than ever.

As luck would have it, her mother invited what appeared to be every acquaintance that she had both in this life and, quite possibly, in previous ones. Apparently Alice met half of the guests when she was only an infant (not that she could remember them), and some of them she had never met before in her life. Nonetheless, almost every person that was invited to the so-called "get-together" came up to her, gave her a warm welcome, inquired about her trip, and wished her a happy twenty-second birthday. These guests included Hamish, who was as ostentatious as ever; Lady Ascot, who'd never quite forgiven her for turning down her son so publicly; as well as the gossipy Chattaway twins, who somehow managed to improve upon finishing each other's sentences.

Alice warmly received their greetings, gluing on a smile that was as sweet as treacle. For the first hour and a half, this seemed like a relatively successful tactic, until the sides of her mouth began to ache. Thankfully, Lord Ascot came to her aide and took over the conversation when it appeared that she might explode with anxiety.

Having temporarily been relinquished from her responsibilities, Alice wandered off in search of a secluded room, somewhere away from the party. This was how she ended up being assailed by her older sister.

"Alice," Margret cooed delightfully upon seeing her younger sister, "Oh, how I have missed you!" She enveloped Alice in a tight embrace.

"I've missed you as well!"

Margret pulled away and looked her over, "You look positively radiant in that gown! Light blue always _was_ your color."

Alice patiently waited for Margret to take notice that it was one of her old outfits and mentally prepared herself to get an earful of unintentional insults (she had a knack for doing that, you know, insulting people on accident) - instead, she excitedly babbled on. The younger of the two concluded that, given Margret had such a vast ensemble of clothes at her disposal, it would be difficult to notice when someone was wearing one of her old outfits.

"It's such a pity that mail doesn't easily get to China! I surely would've written more, otherwise." Margret informed, taking Alice by the arm and leading them (regrettably) back into the foyer, where clusters of lavishly-dressed people were making conversation. "I have so much to tell you about, Alice. I fear that I wasn't able to be incredibly thorough with Mother looking over my shoulder as I wrote."

"Is that so? I am not surprised," Alice remarked laughingly as they moved to a small bench and sat. Margret's gloved hand pulled away. "So... about you and Lowell. What happened?"

"What a foul, lascivious man he is! A regular Casanova!" The reaction was spontaneous and uncontrolled – Alice, although thoroughly amused, immediately regretted inquiring about this subject as the partygoers paused and began stealing curious glances at them. Margret ducked her head in shame, turning her head to speak with her sister in a more covert tone.

"I found him with another woman," She hissed spitefully, "in _our_ bed!'

Guilt gnawed at Alice's innards. Could Margret's plight have been lessened if Alice would have revealed Lowell's lack of faithfulness before things got out of hand?

"What did you do?"

…No. Margret probably wouldn't have believed Alice if she would have told her the truth. It seemed that, when it came to matters of the heart, her sister always wore a pair of horse blinders; if anything seemed out of the ordinary, she refused to acknowledge it until the problem grew and smacked her strait between the eyes.

"I slapped him, called him a heartless pig, and went straight to my lawyer," She explained, "Lowell was so concerned for his reputation that I ended up receiving quite a decent sum just to keep the divorce quiet. Then, in court, we raked him over the coals. He got a good dose of comeuppance, I'd say."

Alice's contrition abated and she allowed herself to relax; it seemed as though the influx of money had soothed a majority of Margret's animosity.

"But, do not worry for me, Alice," her sister placated, "I've found someone far better. He's a very charming. More importantly, he's of good social standing. But first, you must promise not to keep your surprise at a minimum – and please don't be too harsh on me, dear sister."

The tone in which the words were spoken immediately set Alice on edge. Perhaps she could persuade Margret not to tell her, so that she could retain some sort of peace of mind – anonymity, after all, _did_ have its perks -

"Hamish and I… have been seeing each other."

Alice, already unhealthily white, paled even further.

"Hamish?" She repeated, disbelieving. '_Please, please, __**please**__ contradict me-'_

"_Yes_, Alice," Margret's hand fell back onto Alice's cold and trembling one – it rested there for only a second before Alice sharply pulled hers away. Her sister winced.

"_Hamish_? As in… digestive problems and blockages, Hamish?"

"Shh! Stop!" She held her finger to her lips. "You promised-"

"I did no such thing," Alice abruptly stood from the bench and, seething, she turned to her sitting sibling and whispered, "Money and status aren't _everything_, Margret."

Margret simply looked up at her, too stunned to say anything in return.

Alice was completely empty of words. She knew that Margret was materialistic, but _Hamish_? Sure, he was exceedingly wealthy and a Lord, but he was just about as interesting as watching paint dry! Margret deserved better than being with a man with such a gross lack of imagination!

"I… I think I need some air," The blonde, having said this, fled the room.

*

She'd not been home for even a full day and she was already in the predicament that she promised herself that she would do her utmost to avoid.

"Alice, you have _no _self control," the blonde berated herself as she traversed the grassy knoll of the backyard, heading in the direction of the garden.

'_You promised yourself that you wouldn't do this,_' she tried to reconcile with herself, hoping that perhaps the revelation would make her freeze. That was true – she _did_ promise herself she wouldn't do this, and for several very good reasons. One: she always had unfinished business that needed tending; two: running from her problems was not something any adult should do; and three: more than anything, she greatly feared disappointment.

Out of breath, Alice stopped beneath the shadows of some tall, freshly-manicured hedges. The heat began to wrap itself around her with cobra-like strength; she fanned herself with her hand, but it did little to ease her affliction. Why did her mother force her to wear such insulating garments, especially during the summer?

Ignoring the mosquitoes buzzing around her face, Alice kept her eyes transfixed on the shrubbery. She hoped that staring intently at the bushes would make them stir with the tell-tale signs of the white rabbit. Her peripheral vision began to blur as she focused even harder. Silently, she prayed that she would catch a glimpse of the creature's posh, crimson dress coat and fluffy tale.

In her mind, she reasoned that walking through her mother's garden might somehow incite the same results as walking through the garden at Lord Ascot's estate. There was no logic behind this deduction, though; only girlish optimism.

_'Take me back. I want to go. Take me back. I want to go.'_

As darker clouds began rolling across the arc of the sky, the broken clock inside Alice's chest began to tick faster. She stood amongst the cultivated flowers and greenery for what felt like hours…

_'Take me back. I want to go home.'_

... But the white rabbit never came. _  
_

*

**Author's Note:**

_... I need a cigarette. _

_This was a lot longer than I thought it'd be. Initially, I planned to write more for this chapter, but… it felt like it would be too much too soon. Sorry if some of you think I went overboard... as for the rest of you, you guys will have to wait a little bit longer for the super duper interesting stuff. _

_I've got some mini-notes, too, if your curious about anything. Nothing too major:  
_

_**1. **In Lewis Caroll's Alice's Adventures in Wonderland, he based Alice off of a girl named Alice Pleasance Lindell. I thought that having Helen address Alice with her middle name would make her seem more motherly - in a stern kind of way. _

_**2. **My goal in this is not to make Helen or Margret out to be mean or bitchy; like any good character, they have their flaws. Some of them are big, some of them are small. __Helen is a caring mother by nature, she just shows it in a way that is difficult for Alice to understand. Margret, having grown up living a life of luxury, thinks that money will bring her happiness. She and Hamish are so absorbed in society and pleasing others that they don't know what it's like to be happy without spending money, which is why I paired them together. Like Helen, Margret means well, but sometimes she has a difficult way of showing it - this will be expressed in further chapters. _

_Ha. Yeah, I'm sorry if you guys are LOL-ing at the Margret/Hamish thing, but... ugly, rich boys need love, too. _

_Just kidding. It needed to happen. Or maybe it didn't - I just happen to be a fan of early-onset comic relief.  
_

_(I'm starting to think that my next piece should be crack. What do you think? Hm? **Hm**?)  
_

_On another note, thanks for the awesome comments; they inspire me to write even more. I'd also like to thank Hollie831 for pointing out some grammar issues in the previous chapter._ _If you find any errors, I'd appreciate it if you could notify me in a PM. I don't have a beta or anything, only spell check. I tend to overlook things from time to time because I'm hyoohmun. _

_Thanks for reading!  
_


	3. Pandora's Box

Queen Me

**Chapter II**

Pandora's Box

*

_As darker clouds began rolling across the arc of the sky, the broken clock inside Alice's chest began to tick faster. She stood amongst the cultivated flowers and greenery for what felt like hours…_

_'Take me back. I want to go home.'_

_... But the white rabbit never came. _

*

On her eighth birthday, Charles Kingsley bought Alice a very special gift. The box, wrapped in a gold cloth, was accentuated with a puffy, umber-colored ribbon. She carefully began to dissect the gift, untying the shiny ribbon first and letting it slip to the ground. Next came the cloth wrapping; its fabric was fastened with a series of metal pins; unhooking them one by one, she finally revealed the box within.

Inside of this box, there was a beige bunny rabbit doll. Its ears were floppy, sewn with satin and velvet, and its eyes were two soulful, glistening black orbs. It was also wearing a sophisticated-looking suit.

Excitedly, Alice reached into the box and pulled out the stuffed animal.

"He's so cute!" She gushed happily. Normally, Alice wasn't one for toys, but she loved rabbits more than any other animal. She always wanted a real one, but her mother forbid it, and she never left any room for argument on the subject.

The young girl leaped upon her father and hugged him as hard as she could.

"I figured you'd like it," he hugged her back. "You should give him a suitable name. No stuffed animal should be without one!"

Alice thoughtfully stared at the rabbit, small hands holding the creature from beneath its armpits. Its head lolled forward. The rabbit looked like a less demeaning version of the teacup-throwing hare from her dreams.

"I think that Sir Thackery Gentlemanly Earwicket is an intelligent name. What do you think, Papa?"

Charles laughed at the 'Gentlemanly' part. "I must agree – it is a perfectly intelligent and _unique_ name."

She grinned and took one of its velvety ears between her thumb and forefinger, petting it. "Good! Sir Earwicket, I invite you to join me for some tea this afternoon. After that, I will introduce you to Mother. She will be most pleased that you aren't real!"

"…I'm sorry Mum won't let you have a real one, Alice," her father apologized, sounding remorseful. Alice looked up at him. "But I'll tell you what – a pet bunny rabbit can't live forever, but a toy one can."

"But what if it breaks?" She inquired, head tilting to the side.

"Oh, broken things can almost always be fixed, Darling."

"What if… what if it gets lost?"

Charles leaned in close to Alice, tapping her on the nose affectionately. In a whisper, he said: "Lost things can always be found again. You just need to learn to retrace your steps."

*

The circumference of the garden was built around a large, knotted oak tree. The overgrown centerpiece, with its strong branches reaching desperately towards the heavens, was more beautiful than any of its kind. At the base of its weather-worn trunk, Alice deposited herself in the cool grass; with arms spread-eagled, she let her gloved fingertips comb through the emerald blades. She was sure that the meticulous bun that her hair was once pinned back in was now a tangled mess. Not that it mattered. When one was overwrought with discouragement, things scarcely ever mattered.

'_What did you expect, Alice?'_ her conscience chastised, _'Foolish girl.'_ In her gut, she knew that her affinity for escapism would inevitably lead to misfortune and disappointment. It was only a matter of time before she swallowed the bitter pill.

She brought her hand to the hidden scars on her forearm, nostalgically rubbing her fingers against the old wound. How she wished it would burn again, if not to distract her mind from the current ache in her chest.

"I'm acting like a child," she whispered. "Chasing rabbits… Chasing _ghosts_ more like it."

What a terrible sister she was. Margret had confided in her, invested her trust in her, and what did Alice do? She angrily threw it back in her face and ran.

Why did she act so viciously? And more importantly, why did she run? The youngest Kingsley was not a coward by any means – she faced dilemmas head on. She was in no position to judge her eldest sibling; Margret was an adult who could make decisions of her own volition. They both were. Just like their mother had no right to nitpick about Alice's appearance, Alice had no right to criticize Margret for her personality flaws or choice in men. It was not her place.

'_Not that the notion of the two of them is any less revolting,'_ a shiver of disgust overtook her.

Overhead, the clouds began to furl like smoke billowing from a chimney. It would not be long before the nebulous mass blotted out the sun. The sudden weather alteration caused the temperature to drop, and the once-tepid breeze started to pick up. Above her, the leaves rustled, like little fragments of paper blowing around in the breeze.

A storm was coming.

"Margret told me that I'd find you out here," a deep tenor voiced from somewhere behind her, "I wasn't entirely sure if I believed her… yet here you are."

The blonde did not stir as Ascot stood above her, looking upon her quizzically.

"When I was younger," she spoke calmly after a moment, "I would come out here when I was upset, and I would always fall asleep under this tree." This was followed by a soft, lighthearted chuckle. "My mother would get so _upset_. She would look all over the house, in all of my fondest hiding places, and after an hour of searching, she would find me out here napping." Alice finally propped herself up on her elbows and looked at the ornate topiaries mingling amongst the hedges, "This place never changes, it seems. I guess that's why I'm so fond of it."

Her mentor remained silent. She looked up at him, dark eyes flowing with curiosity; Lord Ascot appeared disconcerted. The apprehensive wrinkles in his face deepened with his frown. She noticed that his hair-dusted fingers were rubbing at a tattered, yellow envelope, worrying at the already frail edges.

"Is there something wrong, Sir?" Alice moved to stand, but Ascot held up his hand as if to say, 'Don't get up.' Instead, he knelt down beside her; the run reflected against the glassy surface of his spectacles, obscuring his eyes from view.

"Miss Kingsley-"

"Alice," she corrected.

"_Alice_," he amended, "this might not be the right time, but I am afraid that I must leave, so I have no choice but to give you…" He stopped, seemingly choking on his words. Shaking his head, Ascot re-gathered his bearings.

"This… this is for you," with wrinkled hands, he handed her the envelope. Tentatively, almost hesitatingly, she took the parcel and examined it. The front bore her name in very familiar, very exquisite penmanship; flipping it over, she let the pad of her thumb rub the crimson wax seal, feeling the grooves of the designs it held. It was the Kingsley seal. Her reaction was immediate; uncertainty swept over her like a tidal wave and her shoulders stiffened. Meanwhile, the sun disappeared behind the ominous, roiling thunderheads; a strong gust of wind caught the stray, haystack-blonde ringlets of hair that had fallen from her bun and the tree leaves trembled loudly. The atmosphere grew even colder.

"What is this?" She tried to conceal the shakiness of her voice, but it was futile.

"It is a letter… from your father.

*

"My father?" Alice rasped, heart pounding. "Why are you giving this to me now? Why not -"

"He asked that I give it to you on your twenty-second birthday, no sooner and no later," he answered. "I apologize that I couldn't have given it to you before this, and I hope you bear me no ill will, but I gave my word that I would wait. Do you understand, Alice?"

She nodded, dumbfounded. It made no sense! Why would her father write her a letter and make her wait so many years to receive it?

"And Margret? Did she get one as well?"

He shook his head.

"Neither Miss Margret nor Miss Kingsley. Only you."

Alice… was the only one to get a letter?

The anticipation burning within her was like a wildfire; she feared that it would singe her from the inside out. She wanted nothing more than to pry of the wax seal and read what was inside. However, she had a distinct feeling that she should be weary; perhaps she should mentally prepare herself before indulging in her curiosity. Surely the contents were ---

And just like that, the excitement died away, like paper shriveling up in a fireplace.

She froze. For a second, she thought her heart froze as well. Again, the slight ticking could be heard, reminding her of that day so long ago; the day she stood beneath the threshold of her father's study, seeing all of that _red_.

_Tick-tick. Tick-tick. Tick-tick._

Her eyes, now wide with realization, fell back on Ascot as he picked himself up from the ground, using his silver-plated walking stick to support his weight.

"If my father gave you this letter… then would mean…" Her envelope-bearing hands fell in her lap, paralyzed. "That would mean…"

'…_He knew he was going to die,'_ A sickening sensation began to swirl in her stomach at the sudden epiphany. Her eyes began to burn, like someone had taken cayenne pepper and poured it beneath her eyelids. It felt as if a rusty dagger had been thrust deep into the core of her soul; like Excalibur, the weapon felt as if it could never be removed from its sheath of stone.

Alice looked at the Kingsley seal with tear-blurred eyes.

She spent twelve years of her life silently convincing herself that her father's so-called "suicide" was a farce; that the person who murdered him just happily walked away. Deep down, she knew it would hurt too much to acknowledge the truth behind her father's death. It didn't matter that she could fearlessly adventure into the unknown, explore other mysterious worlds, face a Jabberwocky and an entire army of card soldiers, or that she could stare right into the white, misty eyes of death -- she couldn't believe that her father committed suicide. She knew that the festering guilt would be too much; that accepting the truth would break her.

'_Broken things can always be fixed, Darling.' _

As Alice trembled, a gentle, comforting hand rested upon her shoulder. Raindrops began to pelt down from the spiteful sky.

What would drive him to slit his own throat? Was it something that she did? Was his life not as he had envisioned it? Was having a family something he couldn't bear?

"Do not burden yourself with the past, Alice. What's done is done."

'_Do not burden yourself with the past?' _How could she _not_ burden herself with the past when it continued to be dredged up in such a way? This letter contested to the fact that the past would never be done with her.

Alice looked up at her mentor icily.

"Did you know that it was going to happen?"

When Ascot did not immediately offer an answer, she slapped his hand away and immediately shot up to her feet.

The fabric of his waistcoat flapped in the wind; similarly, the ruffles of her dress began to sway. She hugged her arms around herself to keep warm.

"Did you _know_?" She asked again. The words were laden with anger.

"When Charles came to me, he seemed terrified – I thought that he was in financial trouble, and I offered to assist him. He said that all I could do to help him was to keep that letter safe," He motioned to the parcel in her death-grip, "and give it to you when you were of the proper age. I did have suspicions, I will not lie – but I did not assume that the situation was so…. severe."

Alice was using up every once of self control in her body to remain composed. It felt as though pieces of her sanity were beginning to crumble.

'_Don't cry, Alice. He wouldn't have wanted you to cry. Don't cry, Alice,'_ She took a deep, steadying breath and blinked past the tears.

Then,

"Do you think he killed himself, Ascot? Do you really think he would do such a gruesome thing to himself? To… to all of us?" _To me? _

'_Say no,'_ her eyes begged. '_Please. Just this once. Please contradict me just this once.'_

The man in the bowler hat struggled to find the answer. He himself was similarly torn between two different conclusions, but he never fully committed to one or the other. Ascot did not believe in ruling out the possibilities if there was evidence to prove otherwise.

Nevertheless, his answer was, "No."

*

Alice's hour-long absence did not escape Helen's notice, for the older woman had spent the entire time she was missing placating the guests who wished to inquire about her travels. Her trained ears, well-honed due to her years of motherhood, easily picked up the sound of the screen door in the back of the house squeaking open. Smiling pleasantly at her guests, Alice's mother kindly notified them that she'd back shortly, and scuttled to the back door as fast as her feet would carry her. There, the twenty-two year old, flushed with what looked like overexertion, stood in the kitchen, drying her dampened hair with a small towel.

"Good Lord, Alice… not _again_," she cried, throwing her hands into the air. "Where on Earth have you been? You're positively drenched – and your _hair_! You can't expect me to believe you fell in a hole and hit your head again!"

Alice continued to dry her hair without replying. As a matter of fact, it seemed as though she hadn't heard a word that her mother said.

She was about to demand Alice's whereabouts again when a small, unopened envelope sitting on the counter caught her eye.

"What's this?" Helen approached the counter. Just as she began to reach for the parcel, Alice seized it and pressed it against her chest protectively. Helen shot her an incredulous look. "What is that?"

"N-nothing," the pale girl stammered.

"It doesn't _look_ like nothing," she appraised, sounding suspicious.

"It's… a gift. From Lord Ascot."

"Hm, I see," Helen's face remained skeptical for a moment as she digested the information. Then, appeased with the half-truth, she reverted back to her previous line of questioning.

"Where were you? You've been gone for an _hour_, Alice," she reprimanded, "Have you forgotten about your guests? Because they haven't forgotten about you! Just look at you… such a mess!" The woman's long, slim fingertips snuck into her hair, tucking the strands back into the nest of hair in the back of her head. For a couple minutes, she fiddled with the mass of damp curls in silence. Alice merely stared out one of the kitchen windows, listening to the raindrops pitter-patter against the glass.

"I sincerely hoped you would grow out of these shenanigans, Darling," Helen sighed, taking another piece of hair and relocating it. "You worry me, do you know that? Always disappearing. Even when you're standing right in front of me, I feel as though you are gone. Just like…"

The "Your father" part hung in the air, unsaid.

Helen leisurely spun Alice around by the shoulders; with cold fingers, she held up her daughter's chin, forcing Alice to look at her. Brown eyes met chilling blue.

"I've been harsh on you, Alice," her mother admitted sadly, "but you and Margret are all that I have. I don't know what I would do without you."

Alice gave a half-smile, surreptitiously slipping the letter in her pocket. Although the object itself was light, the weight of the burden within it seemed to make it sink like a stone.

"You look so much like your father," Helen scrutinized with a kind of uncharacteristic softness, "You have his eyes, you know. Not just in color."

"Really?"

"Indeed, you do," suddenly, her smiling face became schooled once more, as if the sudden sentimentality was just a slip. "But now isn't the time to get nostalgic. I suppose your dress isn't _completely_ doused; you'll do as you are. Now go back out there. The party is almost over and everyone will be leaving shortly."

*

The day was, to put it lightly, an eventful one. After Alice was sent back out to mingle with her guests, she accidentally tipped over and broke an expensive vase, ran into Hamish twice, gave a heartfelt apology to her sister, and then, finally, bid her guests farewell. After that, the evening came swiftly, followed by the steady roll of thunder booming across the sky. Alice, completely drained of energy, dragged herself back to the solace of her room and settled herself at her writing desk, which was illuminated by candles. The tired girl watched with exhausted fascination as the melted wax oozed its way down.

In that chair, she sat for quite some time, lost in deliberation.

'_You should just open it,_' her conscience whispered, '_You know you want to.'_

Never before would she have thought about hesitating to open a letter from her father. Had she been given the opportunity when she was younger, she would have torn it from Ascot's hands enthusiastically. Now, however, the opening of the letter meant more than just hearing her father's voice for the first time in twelve years; it meant truth. And truth proved to be, more often than not, extremely hard to accept.

'_You need to know,' _the voice whispered tantalizingly._ 'You've waited so long. Just read it, Alice.' _

Persuaded, Alice stuffed her hand into her pocket and fished out the envelope. As if it were made of wafer-thin glass, she cautiously set it on the desk and let her fingers linger thoughtfully over the bent edges. The Kingsley seal glared up at her, daring her fingers to pry it off.

She swallowed thickly and pushed her fingernails beneath the waxy insignia, easily peeling it off the lip of the envelope. In the jaundiced, flickering light, with her heart rate quickening and nerves unwinding, she felt like she was opening Pandora's Box. Encased within the paper capsule, there were two folded sheets of thick paper. She pulled them out, wincing as she did so, and cradled the pages in her fingertips.

'_I can't turn back now,'_ was her last thought as she unfolded the pieces of parchment and began to read.

_My Dearest Alice,_

_ By the time you read this, you will be a fine woman of twenty-two years. I have no doubt that you've accomplished many great and wonderful things, and I must let you know that, although I am not beside you, I am immensely proud of you. Being father to you has brought me incomprehensible pride and joy; I am glad to have been a part of your life, even if only for a brief amount of time. I do hope that you have not lost any of your obstinacy or imagination, for in the days forthcoming, you will need both. _

_ Because I know how curious you are by nature, I am sure that there are countless questions that you've been asking yourself. In due time, the answers will come; that, can I promise. But during this little time I have left, I must bring some very important matters to light. Please believe me when I say that what I am writing is a truth that I have revealed to no one – I trust that you will do the same, for it is detrimental to your safety that you keep what I am about to tell you a secret._

_ My mother, your grandmother, was a great and powerful woman of many talents – one of her most prominent skills was the ability to foresee the future. She and my father, by will of their guardians, they were betrothed at the age of sixteen, and eventually forced to marry._

_My mother first gave birth to fraternal twins, my sisters, who she named Iracebeth and Mirana. _

_I know what you must be thinking that I've gone completely, utterly mad, but it is the irrevocable truth. The place where I was born and raised was, in fact, the world which you used to dream about as a child. By now, you must know that Wonderland is real. _

_Inherently, because my mother was Queen, this makes me a prince – not a king, as you might presume; this is because the hierarchy of Wonderland is ruled by females. That is why I was not bequeathed with the power to rule. _

_My mother gave birth to me several years after my sisters came into the world. From the time they were able to speak, Iracebeth and Mirana quarreled about who would take my mother's place as Queen of Wonderland; Iracebeth maintained that, because she was theoretically born first (if only by a couple minutes), she deserved the crown. Meanwhile, Mirana contested that Iracebeth did not have the proper traits for being a good queen. They clashed together over this matter for years. _

_ One day when I was seventeen, my mother, who was known by her followers as the Queen of Hearts, fell ill. Iracebeth, Mirana and I stood by her side as she lay in her deathbed, writing her last prophecy. She told Mirana and Iracebeth that they would both rule only for a short period of time, because a queen was not suitable to rule if there was darkness residing in her heart. She said that the true heir to the throne of Wonderland had yet to be born – and that when she came to power, she would remain there forever. Yet, when we looked at the prophesy she wrote, the scroll was blank. At the time, we did not know that the words were hidden with powerful magic. Iracebeth, blind with rage, stormed out of the castle; Mirana said her goodbyes and gracefully followed after her._

_After they left, my mother turned to me and told me that I must leave Wonderland immediately, so I would be safe from my feuding sisters. Dark times were coming; Wonderland would soon fall into ruin. She told me of a gateway that lead to another world – the Otherland, is what she called it. After her death, I did as she told, and left behind my life and name in Wonderland._

_Many years later, you were born. I did not think much about it until you turned eight, and began to have the dreams. You spoke of Wonderland as if you had actually been there. That was when my mother's words came back to me: the true heir to the throne of Wonderland had yet to be born. I came to the realization that the reason why my mother told me to leave was to protect myself and inherently protect you, my unborn child - the true heir to the throne of Wonderland. _

_ Perhaps this is too much information for you to digest –but it is necessary that you know of this past life of mine, so that you can live the life you were destined to lead. _

_ You must go back to Wonderland, Alice, but I am afraid that the white rabbit will not be able to lead you there. My loyal friend, Lord Ascot, has been asked to take a very special item back to our home when you receive this letter. This item will help you get back. Although I cannot disclose on paper what this item is, I'm sure you will recognize it when you see it. _

_ Just remember, Alice: although Fate may have plans in store for you, you will always have a choice. Sometimes taking a small diverge in the path is necessary to get to your destination. _

_Alas, my role in the story is now coming to a close. They are coming for me. No matter what anyone tells you, you must understand that my death was not of my own volition. My sisters are vengeful by nature and will do anything in their power to be queen – do not trust either of them. _

_ I will always love you, my daughter; you are far stronger than you know. I always knew you were meant to do great things. I wish you luck on your journey; you will need it. _

_Your Loving Father, _

_Charles Kinglsey _

*

It took about a half an hour for Alice to convey a noticeable reaction.

At first, she stared at the papers with an indiscernible expression. For the moment, this seemed like a reasonable action to take, given what she'd just read. She did this for quite some time.

In her mind, there were no thoughts. The train wreck of information that was usually clamoring through her psyche had, quite mysteriously, vanished.

Alice forced herself to re-read the letter. Her pupils wildly darted back and forth as she devoured each carefully-penned word for a second time.

After perusing the letter again, she was thoroughly convinced that she had absolutely lost her marbles.

"I belong in a nuthouse," She murmured with careful placidity; re-folding the papers, she slipped them into the envelope, and gently tucked it back into her pocket. Poising her shoulders, Alice let herself take a deep, calming breath and slowly exhaled. For a moment, she buried her face in her hands despairingly. For a while, all was quiet.

But then, with an unforeseen burst of energy, she abruptly stood up from her chair, knocking it over in the process, and darted out of her bedroom, as if Hell Hounds were nipping at her heels. The candles flickered in her wake.

*

The rain, carried on a brisk, howling wind, angrily pelted down upon her as blindingly white streaks of lightning sliced across the sky. With strength she didn't know she possessed, Alice threw open the door to the stables and hustled inside of the humid building. The air was filled with the heady scent of hay, horses, and dampness, making it hard to breathe. It almost seemed as though her legs had an agenda of their own – they knew exactly where they wanted to go, yet her mind was still back in her bedroom, gaping at the sudden onslaught of information.

Behind her, the wind kicked up the thin, swirling layer of dust coating the stone floor.

'_If my father was mad,_' she thought wildly_, 'then it must be genetic.'_

Alice's rain-soaked shoes squelched with each step and her rain-doused, mud-stained gown, which she had failed to change out of, seemed to weigh her down. Surprisingly, she did have enough common sense to grab a jacket on her way out – it wasn't much of a jacket, really; it was more like a cloak. On Alice, it was quite large; the hood obscured her face and the fabric draped loosely over her shoulders. As she briskly walked through the stable, the fabric flared dramatically behind her, making her feel unnaturally empowered.

'_He didn't kill himself. Something… or someone… killed him,' _she thought. But who or what could have killed him?

The disheveled blonde stopped in front of a stall and, not wanting to spook the horse that was inside, pushed her hood back. In the shadows, a black stallion stood with its head bowed. His ears, however, twitched attentively as she tried to catch her breath. While her hands shakily worked the latch that kept the gate to his stall closed, the horse's head rose. His murky eyes, lined with thick, dark eyelashes, blinked as the girl opened the gate and crept in; she shuffled close to the large creature and petted his muzzle. Alice pulled in close, whispering in the creature's ear.

"Jacque, j'ai besoin de votre aide." (Jacque, I need your help.)

It snorted in response, rearing its head back and forth in a fashion that mirrored a nod. Alice smiled and, adorning the horse with a saddle, pulled herself onto Jacque's back.

How could she be an heir to… well, _anything_? It didn't make sense. She'd surmised that her sole purpose was to kill the Jabberwocky and save the queen, not to become queen herself.

Alice could see how the Red Queen could be spiteful – but the White Queen? She didn't believe in punishment or violence. The sight of blood alone was enough to make the woman physically ill!

It seemed that there was a lot that she didn't understand. The blur of confusion induced by her father's letter had thoroughly skewed her mental clarity, as well as her already warped perception of reality. Life suddenly seemed like a massive, seemingly unanswerable riddle.

'_Hatta, why __**is**__ a raven like a writing desk?' _

'_You know… I haven't the slightest idea!'_

Clinging to Jacque's raven mane, Alice made a sharp clucking noise and used the back of her heels to administer pressure to the horse's sides. In a blur of black, Jacque darted out of the stables and into the storm, disappearing into the darkness of the night.

*

The old apartment was vacant, as she knew it would be. After the Kingsley's moved to the country, the realtor her mother hired notified them that there had been many close bites – but, unfortunately, there were no bidders. Apparently, people were not apt to purchase a home knowing that someone had committed suicide in it – the notion was, as the salesman put it, "discomfiting."

The horse snorted as Alice dismounted; she petted his wet brow in gratitude.

"Merci, Jacque."

Tethering Jacque to the wrought iron fence outside of the brick building, Alice made her way up the steps to the front door. Lightning burst across the sky, illuminating the threshold. Reaching for the doorknob, she hesitated, glancing back at the horse that was tied to the fence.

Was she doing the right thing? What if nothing was inside? For all she knew, it was empty.

'_You've come this far,'_ her conscience goaded. Alice relented and, with a soaked, gloved hand, turned the doorknob. At this, the door easily gave way. Alice didn't push it; instead, it groaned on its hinges as the wind blew it open, as if inviting her inside. Nervously toying with the sleeves of her cloak, the blonde stepped into the dark apartment.

Blackness clung to everything desperately; it was almost suffocating. Even the flashes of lightning did little to reveal her surroundings. The sound of the downpour outside was the only discernible sound; but even then, the steady drumming of water came to an abrupt halt. Behind her, the door slammed shut, making her jump out of her skin. She snapped her head back and stared at the closed entrance.

"Calm down," She ordered herself, stubbornly swallowing her fear. She turned back to the hallway that stretched in front of her; it seemed to wind deep into the bowls of the building, disappearing into the darkness.

The only way to navigate through the apartment was by memory. Tracing her fingers along the wallpaper of the entryway, Alice, dripping wet and shivering with cold, slowly walked further inside. The floorboards creaked beneath her feet.

Around her, the past seemed to dance about, playing tricks on her mind. Her wicked imagination only fueled the fright swelling inside of her; she could imagine the shadows shifting and moving, slithering along the walls, whispering of death. She passed familiar doors – the maid's quarters, the laundry room, the kitchen, the living room. She tried all of the knobs, attempting to push them open, but the doors were locked and refused to budge. She grew frustrated.

At the end of the hallway, Alice accidentally stumbled over the stairs. Thankfully, she managed to catch herself using the railing. She couldn't help but nervously laugh at herself as she pulled herself upright.

'_Come on, Alice, you used to _**_live_**_ here. You should know where the stairs are, for Pete's sake!' _

Using the rail as a guide, Alice made her way up the winding stairs, emerging onto the upper level of the apartment. She repeated her previous actions by attempting to open every door that she passed, only to find that none relented. She passed her old bedroom, Margret's bedroom, her parents' bedroom, and sluggishly approached the end of the hallway. Her brows furrowed as she stood before the door to what she knew was her father's old study. A sliver of golden light seeped through the crack between the threshold and the door itself, spilling onto her face.

Alice did not want to open the door. As she tested the doorknob, she prayed that it too wouldn't turn, despite the fact that there was a light burning within. Instead, the door easily opened. The light flooded out, pooling into the hallway.

Momentarily, she stood rooted to the spot, unable to move or breathe.

In her mind's eye, she could see her father's body, spattered with blood and splayed upon the floor like a puppet whose strings had been severed. The image came and went in a flash, leaving her trembling.

"Stop it," she told herself shakily, dispelling the mental image by clenching her eyes shut. Sliding into the well-lit study, Alice noticed a small, dwindling fire cackling in the fireplace, indicating that whoever came here had done so recently. On the floor there was an oil lamp, casting a steady glow. In the midst of it all stood a tall, ovular object draped and bound in white, dusty sheets. Alice approached the white mass warily, gnawing on her lip as she did so.

_My loyal friend, Lord Ascot, has been asked to take a very special item back to our home… This item will help you get back. I'm sure you will recognize it when you see it. _

She loosened the knots expertly, pulling away the fabric. The sheets slid to the ground with a quiet whisper, revealing an ordinary-looking object. There was a soft sound of something rolling across the floor, but she paid it no mind.

'_It's only a mirror,'_ she thought dejectedly. And here she expected something magnificent and wonderful to be revealed – not some piece of old furniture. She examined it with a critical eye, looking at the ornate, silver frame. The metal was imbued with metal flowers and vines; between the grooves, the metal had oxidized and rusted into an unflattering greenish hue.

But if it was simply a mirror, then why was it here? Why was it the only thing in the room? And why had it been covered in drapes?

Her fingers smoothed over a chilled metal flower petal, scrutinizing the mirror for anything that might indicate a purpose other than self-examination. Beneath the pad of her index finger, the metal seemingly hummed. She thought, perhaps, her mind was playing tricks on her again – but there was no mistaking it. The frame was humming beneath her hand, and the metal was growing warm with a kind of energy that was anything but ordinary. She pulled away, startled.

Stepped away from it, Alice hoped that having a bigger scope of the mirror would allow her to find something more interesting. While doing so, she accidentally stepped on a small scroll.

'_It must've fallen out when I took off those sheets,_' she realized. Picking it up, she began to unwrap the crimson binding. But before she could finish undoing the bow, she looked up and faltered.

"What on Earth?" The blonde gasped, looking at the glass, and her glaringly absent reflection. As a matter of fact, the mirror reflected absolutely _nothing_. The placid, rust-stained surface of the glass was a murky shade of blue, refracting odd sparkles of source-less light. Other than that, there was nothing. At the arc of the frame, the metal was smeared with dust – but as she shuffled closer, she could see letters hidden beneath.

"Hm."

The scroll temporarily forgotten, she used her free thumb to smear away the grime, attempting to read the obscured words.

"Look at me… and you will see…" Alice recited slowly, squinting at the message ingrained into the frame. With more strength, she scraped at the remaining part of the message, revealing what was left, "the place in which you'd rather be."

"That sounds simple enough," the twenty-two-year-old murmured apprehensively, clenching the scroll slightly before taking a small step backwards. There was, of course, a small amount of skepticism that she felt, but it was fleeting.

Images of otherworldly wildlife swarmed before her eyes; she thought of rocking horse flies, well-bred roses with elegant lilts to their accents; she thought about towering castles, tea parties, monstrously large trees and giant mushrooms.

Brown eyes fixed on the mirror expectantly. For one terrifying moment, the glass did nothing.

Then, ever so slightly, the blue began to swirl with earthy shades of yellow, brown, and ochre. The looking glass's reflection transformed from an endless blue into what looked like a blurry room, which gradually gained more sharpness – it was a fire-lit space, cluttered with luxurious, mahogany furniture. It was her father's study – as it had looked when he was still alive. The room was warm, and the hallway was brimming with light. The writing desk was overwhelmed with papers, as her father's desk always used to be. Her own reflection, however, still remained elusive.

Alice's eyebrows knitted impossibly close together as she stepped closer. It didn't look like Wonderland, but it did look like _something_. Now… the question was: how did she get there?

_She told me of a gateway that lead to another world – the Otherland, is what she called it._

A gateway…

Perhaps looking at it was not enough? Maybe touching the mirror would…?

Her pale hand rose and grazed against the glass. Instead of meeting a hard surface, the glass rippled like water beneath her hands, disrupting the image being displayed. A cold sensation wrapped around her fingertips as they sunk into the now-permeable surface; her breath hitched as she stepped closer, sticking her arm further into the mirror.

'_This is…'_

She didn't know what to think, because she wasn't exactly sure what '_this'_ was.

Closing her eyes and taking in a breath, Alice pushed herself halfway through the looking glass. The frigid, watery sensation lasted only a moment, before Alice found herself taking a step out of the mirror at the same time, just as quickly as she had entered it. She had seemingly emerged into her father's study once again; but as the image the mirror had portrayed, the once-barren room was now filled with tasteful pieces of furniture. Here, the temperature of the room was significantly warmer. Instead of the distant rumble of thunder, she could hear music playing.

Pulling the rest of her body out of the mirror, Alice stumbled forward, but miraculously regained her footing. She spun on her heel, mind reeling at the sudden change in atmosphere.

"Where _am_ I?"

*

First, she noticed that the arrangement of the furniture was backwards from how her father always had it. The fireplace was on the opposite wall, the desk was facing the opposite direction, as were the chairs. Then, she noticed the books. Each tome Alice pulled out of her father's bookshelf produced the same result: the titles were written completely and utterly backwards. Turning back around, Alice saw that the mirror's glass had reverted back to an eerie cloud of blue.

She looked back at the room. Everything was right, yet absolutely _wrong_. Which was… well, _right_. Because - if everything was wrong, then she was most definitely in the right place.

"Everything is backwards!" She exclaimed, unable to keep the excitement from her voice. Unbuttoning and discarding her cloak, Alice took a turn about the room. She rifled through the stacks of papers on her father's desk. Elation seized her when she found that each word was wonderfully illegible. The happiness exploding in her chest was incomprehensible.

'_I __**must**__ be back._'

Grinning, Alice collected her damp cloak from the chair which she had deposited it over and exited the study, taking off at a dead run down the hallway. The doors were now on the opposite sides of the wall; all of them were unlocked and gaping open, but inside, there was no one to be found. When she hit the stairs, she found herself befuddled even further. Instead of going down, the flight of stairs went up.

"Oh!" Rolling her eyes, she sprinted up the stairs as fast as her legs would carry her. She ran past the living room, where a record player was spewing music, past the maid's quarters, and past the laundry room, where the sink was overflowing with suds. Better than any of this, though, was the fact that every available light source was on, allowing her to see her path with perfect clarity.

Exuberantly, Alice exploded out the front door. Instead of cobblestone streets and tall, brick buildings, there was an endless periphery of grass, forest, mushrooms, and flowers. The night sky hung above, bursting at the seams with stars.

"I'm… I'm _back_," she breathed with disbelief.

*

_**Author's Note**: _

_Chick-uh what!? Chapter 2 is complete? At last? _

_Yes! It would seem so. Sorry for the delay in updating - I was home for spring break and didn't have access to a working computer. Besides, I had the majority of the finished chapter on my desktop at my Dorm, and forgot my flash drive 'cause I'm super smart... _

_It originally wasn't going to be this long. But I'm glad I got to the good stuff. _

_I shall update this later proooobably because I'm kind of tired. Formatting issues, too. Gay!  
_

_ Please review! Your ideas/criticisms/compliments are deeply appreciated. :)  
_


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